A Little Trip to Heaven
by the.goal.is.greatness
Summary: They are married because they are in love. [Dean x Castiel]


**Title:** A Little Trip to Heaven  
**Genre:** Romance  
**Rating:** M  
**Pairing:** Dean x Castiel  
**Spoilers:** N/A  
**Summary:** They are married because they are in love.  
**Word Count:** 2,050  
**Warnings:** Unclear timeline.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Summary is from _Paradise Lost_.

**A/N:** I'm not the biggest fan of this pairing (I'm not sure why, it just wasn't something I thought of), but I thought I'd try to churn up some love for these two together.

* * *

Dean isn't sure when he first notices it. In retrospect he guesses it was pretty obvious. He's not someone who prays, never has been. When you're a kid who knows that monsters are real there really doesn't seem a point in praying when a bullet and a hatchet can help you right away. He especially doesn't pray after he meets the bunch of dicks that angels turn out to be, after he meets the starving recluse author that fucking God is.

But suddenly he realizes that he prays to Cas. He doesn't know at first, that what he's doing is praying. He thought that was all, "Hail Mary, full of grace," and "Bless me Father, for I have sinned," shit. He's talking to Cas. He's not praying.

He realizes it because one night he walks by Sam's room and hears him praying (there's no mistaking the reverent tone of his voice, the one he only uses when he tries to convince Dean that maybe there's something _more_ out there). And… it doesn't sound like the praying that Dean is imagining.

"If you could watch over Dean, that would be great, he doesn't really trust his little brother to look out for him. And say hi to dad and Kevin and Jo and Charlie. Tell Jess I love her. And, you know, if you could get rid of all the Supernatural books that'd be great, Chuck."

Dean smiles to himself before continuing on to his room. He sits on his bed for a long moment. Now he's nervous to talk to Cas, now it feels like praying and it puts him on edge, makes the situation seem more holy and intimate. Makes it seem more real.

"So, hey Cas – "

"Hello, Dean."

Dean shoots up like a rocket, hands curled into fists, before his mind catches up with his body. Cas is watching him with a fond, amused expression, his eyes soft. "Jesus, Cas, can't you ring a bell or something?"

He tilts his head in a birdlike movement. "But I already have my wings, Dean."

It takes Dean a long moment to realize that Cas is making an _It's a Wonderful Life Joke_, _fucking joke_, and when he gets it, he tilts back his head and roars with laughter.

* * *

Praying – talking – to Cas is easier after that, natural. The few times he appears in the bunker or the backseat of the Impala or sitting across from Dean suddenly in a diner are enough to make Dean have a heart attack, but he starts to get used to it. But one night Dean isn't praying, he's mostly unconscious from a vicious run in with a pack of werewolves, sprawled onto his bed in a bloody heap. Cas appears that night, too.

Dean only notices when the aches and pains vanish in a soothing brush of energy, that sweeps through him in a cooling rush. It makes him groan in pleasure to be suddenly free of blood and dirt. "Hey, Cas, thanks, man." When he rolls over and opens his eyes, he's started by the despair in the angel's eyes. "Hey, man, you okay?"

"Why didn't you call?" The brow is furrowed, the eyes intense.

"What?"

"You call to me every night, but you didn't tonight."

"Call to you – oh you mean, when I…" Dean swallows, spits the word out. "Pray?"

"I would have come if I knew you were injured. I heard Sam's prayers and came then."

"Sam… prayed for me?"

Blue eyes softened. "He does every night." When he reaches out a hand but lets it fall, Dean realizes that he's kneeling next to his bed. "Dean, why didn't you ask for my help?"

"I – " He's suddenly very aware that he talks to (prays to, calls to, whatever you want to call it) to this man every night. "I don't know. I – didn't really know if you'd come or, fuck man, I don't know. I don't even know that you're listening most of the time or if you hear me all the time."

Suddenly Castiel lets his head drop onto Dean's shoulder. "I always hear you, Dean."

There's an ache in his chest that's hard to define. But it unclenches just a little when he lifts his hand and rests it in Castiel's hair.

* * *

It isn't long before suddenly Dean sees Castiel appear in his room once or twice a week. Obstinately, Cas comes with various pieces of information or new cases, but Dean knows that he is just checking up on him. It is a novel experience. But it is hard for Dean to live in such close quarters with someone who isn't family. And Castiel isn't some woman from a bar. He's not a woman at all. Hell, he's not even _human_. Dean doesn't know how to act around him in a manner than isn't demon hunts and leviathan and cases and monsters and prophets.

So when he walks into his own room one day and finds Castiel watching gay porn on his TV he literally has 100% no idea how to react.

"Human men find this pleasurable?"

Okay, _now_ he has literally no idea how to react. "I – what?"

"Angels are not promiscuous in any capacity. So there is no frame of reference for me." He's half watching the television like a student in an anatomy lab and he's half watching Dean with a compelling, thoughtful look in his eye. Dean continues to stutter, as with the suddenness of a light being turned out, Cas vanishes from the foot of the bed. Before Dean can blink, the angel appears directly before him, eyes blue as lamps in the dim light, intent. Dean stumbles back a step, but the hard line of the door is behind him. "You are an attractive man, Dean."

He opens his mouth, to say something witty and funny, but finds that he can't because Cas has pressed their lips together.

Dean knows that his eyes are comically wide, staring into Castiel's eyelids, his eyes are almost crossed with the effort, but he can't close them, he's too surprised. The doorknob is digging into his spine he's leaning so far backwards. It's nothing more than a press of lips on lips, but after a moment, Castiel tilts his head up just a little, and their noses bump into one another. The angel's eyes pop open at the feeling and he seems startled by Dean's wide eyes so close to his. He leans back, but does not step away. Dean is utterly fascinated to see a ruddy tinge to those cheeks.

"Forgive me, Dean, I am not well versed in… situations such as this." He gestures vaguely towards the television. When Dean's eye's glance over at it automatically he catches a brief flash of a pair of men doing something in the shower that involves a lot of ingenuity and a more open-mouthed manner of kissing.

"Uh, yeah, sure, man…" He clears his throat, wondering why Cas hasn't moved away before he realizes it's just because Cas doesn't really have any idea about personal space. This close, Dean can see the sweep of eyelashes against his cheeks as he blinks, the peculiar quirk of his mouth when he speaks, smell the electricity scent of him. He swallows around a suddenly dry throat. "Uh, question…" He falters when those eyes stare at him in expectation. Ah, fuck it. Here goes nothing. "Do you know how to kiss?"

The sudden heat in those cheeks is answer enough.

Dean spares a momentary thought for what he's doing, but then he tells his thoughts to fuck off. Castiel has been there for him like no one else in his life except for Sam. Castiel saved him from Hell. He answered Dean's prayers, came when he asked, healed him when he was hurt. And it didn't really hurt that, from a purely aesthetic standpoint he was attractive – and his voice was basically sin on the ears.

It takes a second for these thoughts to spiral through his head, but at the end of it, he surges off the door, grasps a pair of shoulders, and spins a startled Castiel around to switch their positions.

"What – "

"_This_," Dean says, his hands slamming against the wood on either side of Castiel's head, "is how you kiss."

This is more than lips on lips. Dean uses those extra three inches to his advantage, as he slants his head down, sliding his tongue in between surprised lips to pry them open. When he sweeps his tongue through Cas' mouth, the angel gives a surprised moan, and Dean feels him suddenly grasp his arms in a bruising grip. He can't help the purely male grin that curls along his mouth at the sound. He pulls away just enough to nip at the corner of that mouth, which elicits a gasp. And Dean suddenly, irrevocably, wants to know what other kinds of noises he can make Cas make.

A sweep of his tongue against Castiel's makes the angel sigh. A slow, lingering kiss makes him pant and writhe. But when Dean laves a trail of open mouthed kisses down the pale column of throat and sucks a mark onto the thick muscle of shoulder, it makes Cas _whine_.

Dean almost doesn't catch him when he goes boneless and pliant against him, knees giving out. He's staring up at with glassy, vacant eyes, pupils wide, the blue a stark ring. He's breathing harshly, and when Dean cocks a grin down at him, he licks his lips. The sight makes Dean sway forward just a little.

"Dean?" His name is a question – a thousand questions – and takes Dean a long moment to gather his thoughts enough to answer. But when he does, his answer is clear.

"Yeah."

* * *

For all his promiscuity, Dean does not have experience with men. It is not something he ever thought about. He never once looked at another man and had a wayward thought, never got blackout drunk and woke up making out (or in bed) with another man. But Cas is different. It is… beyond gender. It is not about that. It is new and exciting, but familiar and safe. Dean knows that nothing will happen to him when Cas is there, that Cas will never make fun of him or judge his skills in the bedroom. It is… easy.

At the beginning, Dean has one brief moment of wondering who will play what role. But when they tumble onto the bed, Castiel is sprawled across the sheets and Dean fits so perfectly into the spread of his thighs, that he never wonders that again. This is exactly where he belongs.

This is his heaven.

It's where Castiel's long palms sweep up his spine in slow, even strokes, fingers clenching in his shoulders, tangling tightly in his hair. Every moment filled with heat and warmth and _ohgodsotight_ and gut clenching and shaking limbs. Heaven is where his ears are filled with a litany of needy moans and breathy pants and an endless rendition of his name said in sinful supplication. "Dean, Dean, yes, f-fuck," (that's Dean's favorite, when he can make Castiel lose his cool demeanor and he loses a string of expletives), "ugh, _ugh_, Dean, _Dean_." It is so sinful that it is almost sacrilege to image this as his heaven, but Dean knows that it is.

"_Cas_…"

There is no perfection like this – the tightness curling higher and higher and higher until he feels like he'll climb all the way to the Pearly Gates, before it snaps and he shatters and he spirals out of control in white-out bursts of pleasure.

It is fitting that, in the aftermath, Dean prays, since it was his prayers that brought them together. He mumbles almost incoherently into the curve of neck and shoulder. Promises, declarations, endearments.

"Love you."


End file.
